to

but to make up composed two little pieces, in which he appeared more advantage his manner being considered "passable for a dilettante." This would seem to be about the first time in which the strong feeling he had on the subject of comedy found expression. Italian comedy, with its cognate art in Spain, is one of the chief sources of modern dramatic art; but in Goldoni's time the traditionary harlequinade, the pantaloon, and doctor, who have now dropped into pantomime, still held possession of the stage; and a comedy meant a skeleton plot of reckless construction-a few strong situations for these established and well-known characters, without any attempt at representation of life or truth to

The pantaloon and harlequin have nothing indeed to do with nature they are entirely and formally fictitious-creatures altogether apart from the ordinary world, living in a fictitious atmosphere of their own. Far less dignified than the tragic actors of the northern drama, or the fine comedians whom Molière trained, they were at the same time in their way much more important and individual, for the success of the representations depended upon themselves alone. The dialogue was their own, and all the filling up of the rudely sketched plot; and as these masked actors were often men of genius, their impromptu gave opportunity for extraordinary exhibitions of dramatic power. This is visible throughout all Goldoni's after-experiences of Italian actors. Though the chief work of his life was the gradual superseding of the traditional buffoonery, and substitution of thoroughly-worked-out and consistent comedy, yet his sense of the importance of the Pantalone, the immediate breaking down of the company in which this important personage fails, and the eager delight

which is shown when a successor is discovered, shows clearly the posi tion he held upon the stage. It is easy to perceive, however, how unequal and uncertain must have been the performances dependent upon improvised dialogue. What Goldoni did was, with great judgment and skill, to work these traditionary personages out of their independent position, and into the characters of his play-taking advantage of their individualities for the enrichment of his own characterdrawing, and gradually reducing them to be the expositors of his sentiments, instead of lawless, if sometimes brilliant, interpretations of their own. Molière had exactly the same task to perform. But at this early period Goldoni had but little perception of what was before him. All he knew was, that "le arlecchinate non mi piacevano," and that, though his tendeney was entirely towards the comic, he had no resource but to turn to the tragic drama as the only possible relief from harlequin and pantaloon. It was only after the experience of years that he ventured to act upon his own better instincts, and to take in hand the reformation of the Italian theatre, instituting in his native country--as had been already done in France and England by greater hands than histhe comedy of life and manners, which made an end of harlequin, and was in Italy an entirely new branch of the dramatic art.

He was still far, however, from taking up this mission, notwithstanding his strong propensity for the theatre, when his father died at the town of Bagnacavallo in the year 1731. Carlo Goldoni was then twenty-four, and the occupation in which he had found footing was an uncertain one, involving continual changes of residence--a peculiarity by no means displeasing to himself, but not at all apparently to the

taste of his mother, who, still in the first grief of her widowhood, was anxious to have her son with her, as was natural, and also to live at home among her own people a happiness which her husband's wandering taste had denied her. The government-or rather, the governors of Venice, changed every sixteen months, and there was consequently a continual change of posts even among the humbler servants of the State, the residents and small officials in the outlying cities of Terra Firma being sent from one place to another with what we should call each change of Ministry. It was a sort of gipsy-trade, Madame Goldoni said, through her tears, to roam thus from place to place, a year here and a year there, when the young man might be established in an honourable profession in Venice, among all his friends, and thus become the support and the consolation of her declining years. "At our arrival in Venice, all our relations and friends joined in the same project. I resisted as long as I could, but at last was obliged to yield. Was I well inspired in doing so?" he asks himself. "Should my mother long enjoy the company of her son? There seemed every hope that it might be so; but my constellation has constantly thwarted all my projects. Thalia awaited me in her temple, drawing me thither by tortuous paths, and forcing me to make trial of thorns and bitterness before she accorded me an occasional flower." Before becoming an advocate-or, as we should say, being called to the Bar — in Venice, however, it was necessary to have taken the degree of Doctor of Laws in the University of Padua (whither Portia sent to old Bellario, the reader will recollect, for her authorities). This degree was granted to townsmen after five years' study in the university, and to strangers only if they could pass a

satisfactory examination, "sustain their thesis," and give proofs of sufficient learning. To this privilege of a stranger Goldoni, born in Venice, had little right; but his family were originally from Modena, and a recommendation from the Duke settled this little difference. He set out, accordingly, for Padua, and placed himself in the hands of a certain "good advocate and excellent master of laws" called Radi, but was not perfectly successful in a private and informal examination which he had to undergo unexpectedly, and looked forward with some alarm to the day of public trial. The subjects were the civil laws concerning intestates, and the canonical regulations affecting bigamy. The young man worked hard till the hour of supper, and, having done all he could, resolved, with a trembling spirit, to give himself the advantage of a good night's rest before his examination, that his mind might be as clear as possible. Radi was almost as nervous, but, alas! was no more prudent than his friend; and besides, was appassionata per il giuoco, and no safe companion for a sufficiently hot-headed youth. This is how their united wisdom prepared for the next morning's work with the triumphant conclusion which they had so little deserved:—

-

"My friend and I were sitting down to supper when five young men came into the room and asked leave to sup with us. Most willingly! Supper was served; we ate, we talked and laughed, and became excellent friends. One of the five was a candidate like myself. . . . By-and-by I said good-night to my companions, adding that to-morrow was my examination, and I must go to bed betimes. At this there was much jesting and mocking of my punctiliousness; our new friends produced cards from their pockets, and one of them laid down some money on the table. Radi was the first to begin the sport: we played,

we passed the night playing, and he and I lost all our money. Before we rose from the table arrived the beadle of the college with the gown which I had to appear in. The bells of the university began to sound. I had to proceed there at once and make my appearance without having closed an eye all night, and with the sense of having lost both time and money. What mattered? Courage! On we went; my promotore met me at the door, took me by the hand and placed me beside himself in a gallery in front of a semi-circle filled with a numerous assembly. I rose when all had taken their places, and began by repeating the ordinary forms, and proposed the two theses which I had to support. One of the deputies in the argument fired off upon me a sillogismo in barbara, with quotations from the text of the major and minor. In my reply, quoting a paragraph, I made the mistake of changing No. 5 into No. 7. My supporter warned me in an under-tone of the slight mistake, and I corrected myself; upon which uprose Signor Arrighi (the previous examiner), and loudly directing his speech to Signor Pighi [the promotore of Goldoni], 'Signor, I protest that I will not suffer the slightest infringe ment of the laws according to the new rule. All prompting of the candidate is prohibited. For this time I shall say no more-the warning is enough.'

"I well recollect that I was ex

tremely irritated by this interruption.

I seized then the favourable moment, took up again the subject of my theme, sustained according to the scholastic method the doctrine and reasoning, the discussion of the authorities and the interpreters. I made a dissertation as far as the material would extend upon the succession of intestates:

when the applause showed me that my heat was pardoned, I turned from civil law to canonical, discussed the article of bigamy, and treated it as I had treated the former. I ran over the laws of the Greeks and Romans, and did not fail to quote the councils of the Church. This kind of argument was delightful to me. I knew the points by heart, and gained myself immortal honour. The votes were collected, and the chancellor announced the result. I had passed nemine peni

tus penitusque discrepante. There was not a single vote against me, not even that of Signor Arrighi, who was perfectly satisfied. My supporter, after having crowned me with the laurel, pronounced a eulogy upon the candidate. As soon as I was approved, all came in, and I was nearly stupefied with compliments and embraces. Radi and I then returned to our inn with great satisfaction that the matter had ended so well, but were perplexed by the loss of our money. We got a supply, however, without much difficulty, and set out gloriously and full of triumph for Venice."

The day of his reception as advocate was accompanied by ceremonies still more remarkable. The

laws of Venice required that the new advocate should present himself at the foot of the Giant's Stairswell-known and tragical scene of so many ascents and downfalls-and standing between two older members of the profession, expose himself for an hour and a half to the remarks of the lively Venetian rabble

a curious relic of the old fashion of flattering that so-called sovereign people by which its autocrats held it in absolute subjection. The neophyte was in his full robes-the gown and "immense wig"-and during the time of the trial made so many bows and contortions that his back was nearly broken, and his wig became like a lion's mane. "Every one who passed gave his opinion of me freely. Some said, Here is a youth of good dispositions; others, Here is a new sweeper of the palace. Some embraced me, some laughed in my face." Amid all the more serious recollections of that scene-the noble Stairs by which the Doges mounted in all the pomp of their investiture, which old Foscari descended with his dead son, and where the blood of Marino Faliero dyed the marble steps,-here is an association less tragic. To see young Goldoni, with that twinkle in his eyes, making un

conscious notes for future use, bowing till his wig was all topsy-turvy, to the laughing, malicious crowd in lively eighteenth-century mockery and light-hearted cynicism, furnishes us with a gayer recollection. When this ordeal was over, Goldoni was taken up the Giant's Stairs into the Hall of the Great Council, where he seated himself upon a bench, and "saw everything going on without seeing anything." While he sat thus dreaming and building castles in the air, he had a curious encounter with a sort of enchantress tempting him with promises of clients, to whom he replied as a good young man always ought to reply to Circe, refusing all her offers,- —a curious scene, which looks more like one of the fantasies of a dreamer than a real adventure. Behold him now, however, called to the Bar, and in a more dignified position if not more hopeful circumstances than had hitherto been his. He began, as is usual to the briefless, with good hopes, promised on all hands clients who never came, dancing attendance at the courts to listen to the harangues of the masters in the art, and gazing round him "to see whether my physiognomy awakened the sympathy of any litigants,"-a somewhat forlorn occupation. In six months he had defended one cause and gained it, but his "constellation" was once more against him. This time it was the failure of a marriage-which had advanced as far as the settlements, and was on the very eve of celebration-which drove him from Venice. The lady's fortune turned out much less satisfactory than was supposed, his own affairs were in disorder, and he had no means of maintaining a wife if the wife herself did not contribute largely to the expenses of the household. Such a catastrophe is not heroic, but it appeared to Goldoni inevitable; and notwithstanding that he

had just made his first appearance in the courts with distinction, he saw no other outlet but to relinquish his hopes and prospects, and turn his back once more upon Venice. This time he carried with him his first dramatic work, a tragedy called " Amalassunta," upon which he hoped to lay anew the foundations of his fortune. After various adventures Goldoni reached Milan, where at last he found an opportunity of reading his work to an assembly of actors and connoisseurs. This was in the house of the manager, whose wife was the first dancer of the ballet, and the whole company was collected, as it proved with little reverence for the young author and his play, to listen to it. Caffariello, the first comedian, had already made acquaintance with Goldoni in Venice. Count Prato, one of the directors of the theatre, a man very learned in dramatic art, was also present.

"I was placed at the table with lights, and all took their places. I pulled myself together for the reading, and announced the title of Amalassunta. Caffariello immediately sang the word, drawing it out and making it ridiculous, to the amusement of all. I, however, was not amused, and the

mistress of the house interfered to silence the nightingale. I then read the names of the characters, which were all new, and all at once I heard close by me a small voice which came from the mouth of an old man who sang in the chorus, and shrieked like a cat, 'Too many, too many,-there are two persons too many.' I saw well that the circumstances were unfavourable to me, and wished to give up my reading, but Signor Prato silenced the insolent, who had none of the merit of Caffariello, and turning to me, said: 'Signor, it is true that in a drama there are seldom more than six or seven personages. When, however, the work is worthy, we are glad to find two actors more than we calcu

lated upon. Have, therefore,' he added, the goodness to proceed with the reading. I then resumed the

book. Act first, scene first, Clodesilo and Arpagone. Here Signor Caffariello asked me what was the name of the first character? Signor,' I said, 'it is Clodesilo.' 'How!' he cried; 'you open the scene with the first actor, and make him appear at the moment in which the people are coming in, finding their seats and making a noise! Per Bacco! I shall certainly not be your first gentleman.' (Che pazienza) Signor Prato again interposed. 'Let us see if the scene is interesting,' he said. I then read the first scene, and while I repeated my lines, a vile fellow drew from his pocket a case of music, and hummed over an air of his part. The mistress of the house then made a hundred excuses, and Signor Prato, taking me by the hand, took me into a little dressing

room at a distance from the sala. Here

he made me sit down, took a seat him

self, condoled with me on the evil conduct of such a company of fools, and begged me to read my play to him alone, that he might have an opportunity of judging, and might tell me honestly his opinion. I was greatly pleased with this act of kindness, thanked him, and recommenced reading from the first line to the last, without sparing him a comma. He listened attentively and with patience, and when it was concluded this was the result:

"It appears to me,' he said, 'that you have studied not badly the poetics of Aristotle and of Horace, and have written your composition according to the true principles of tragedy. Don't you know, then, that the drama set to music must be an imperfect work, subject to rules and customs which are, no doubt, very irrational, yet must be strictly followed? Had you been in France you might have given your chief attention to satisfying the public, but here you must first please the actors, the composer, and even the painter of the decorations: everything has its rule, and it is high treason to the drama to disregard it. Listen,' he added; let me point out to you some of those rules which are immutable, but which you are ignorant of. Each of the three principal persons of the drama should sing five airs,-two in

the first act, two in the second, and one in the third. The second actor and the second soprano can only have three,

and the least important of all must content themselves with-one, or two at the most. The author of the words must submit all the differences of tone which form the chiaroscuro of music to the composer, and take great care that two pathetic airs do not come together. . . . Above all, he must take care not to give any airs of a touching character, or of much movement, or bravura, or rondo, to the least important actors.' Signor Prato would have said more. Enough,' I said, 'oh, Signor! don't take the trouble to continue." "

re

Poor Goldoni, mortified and humiliated beyond measure, tired without a word from this sudden destruction of all his hopes. When he got home, chilled with disappointment and vexation, he refused to sup, but ordered a fire to warm himself. He had his poor "Amalassunta" still in his hand. Mournfully he read over again some of the cherished lines which he had resolved never to cut down or modify, notwithstanding previous criticisms. He still found them full of poetry and grace, and burst out into vituperation of the system which condemned them. "Cursed rules!" he cried; "the devil fly away with the theatre, and all its actors and actresses, musicmasters, decorators!-and thou, too, my unfortunate composition, which cost me so much trouble and deluded me with so many hopes, let the flames devour thee also!" exclaimed the unlucky author, throwing his play into the fire. He watched it burn almost with His expleasure. All was over. citement needed an outlet somehow; and when he had made this sacrifice, a rueful sort of satisfaction succeeded to the previous tumult of his mind. mind. By-and-by, calming down altogether, it occurred to him that it would be a pity to sacrifice his supper as well as his tragedy; and he made a hearty meal in the quiet which succeeded this storm, and